


The Light Conductor Reborn

by speckledhound



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, F/M, First Meeting, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, new relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:36:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speckledhound/pseuds/speckledhound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been coping with the death of Sherlock Holmes for a year now; but will things change?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Light Conductor Reborn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwisterMelody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/gifts).



> Perhaps I am attached to Mary Morstan because of how absolutely wonderful she is with Watson in the canon, so I took to imagining how she'd meet John in the BBC version :) enjoy

From dawn until dusk, nothing would ever change. Every day, a routine so repetitive, so dull, a superior warrior blocking the mind. John would wake up, every day, only to find the flat quiet and gathering dust in place it did not used to. His legs stretched and clung to his body, holding him down as he pulled the covers to the ridge of his nose. Some days a tear would fall, but more often than not, several did so. Somehow, the glaring red glow of his alarm clock would make its way past his closed eyelids and he would, after many minutes had passed, find his way to the bathroom. He did not remember the way there, or if his eyes were even open on his way to take a shower and prepare for the day. He began to pretend that the room he had to pass through in order to get there did not exist, but that he somehow passed through an entirely different plane of existence in which things were different. He’d cut himself shaving, toss a few Q-tips into the trash after cleaning around his ears, trim his fingernails and sit on the rug in the bathroom pulling on his socks. The dread of having to face a new day. John Watson had gotten comfortable with knowing there was someone there in one of the rooms at all times when he was there; he did not have to go far to find someone he had come to trust and care about sitting at a table passionately working on something or passed out on the sofa in a strange position. Thinking of this, of Sherlock, blissfully unaware of the world, at rest… not excited about a new detail to do with a case, not being nit-picky about the way John did something (‘normal people’ was a term Sherlock often used to describe John’s behaviors). These thoughts he would push out of his mind, only after becoming as still as stone wherever he was and beginning the struggle to hold in the tears once more. It wasn’t fair and it never will be; he had already been alone long enough, how could he have ended up in this situation again. The reason was dead; or, rather, both of the reasons were dead. And John would never know why, or how, or… He stood and let himself have a good five minute cry before brushing his eyes clear with his palm and blinking quite a few times. No one at the clinic would notice his red eyes; in believing this, he was wrong. Everyone in London was familiar with the sight of what John Watson looked like by now. Or so it seemed. There was one individual who had never even caught a glimpse of him, and had not so much as over think the news of the suicide of a detective a little of year ago. And she was on her way into town now; late last week a new family with three young children had called her up and asked if she was available to become acquainted with them; they’d see where it went from there.

  
Mary Morstan looked up at the dreary London sky and focused on how the raindrops hit her face. Beautiful, cold. If John Watson could see her, he would see her as she sees the rain.

                                                        ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mary walked in the shadows of St. Bart’s hospital and set her bag and coat down on the side of the curb as she sat down and pulled out her phone. What was the address the couple gave her again? A sudden rush came over her that interfered her typing in the number as she noticed a small object fall onto the pavement out of the corner of her eye. She looked at it more closely and noticed that no, it was not a wallet; rather, it was some sort of small book that a man walking away seemed to have dropped.

“Sir!”

John looked at her; for the tiniest fraction of a second, by some strange habit via the most peculiar kind of exposure and then separation, his mind desired to know everything about this woman, know instantly what job she held and what she put in her coffee that morning.

  
“Ah,” he said, reaching for the notebook the kind-faced woman was handing him. His notebook, where he’d make small notes on cases before transferring them in full to his blog. If Sherlock knew of it, he would never find out.

  
“Thanks, I. . .must’ve dropped it. Busy London streets, you know how it is. Hey, uh. .. is that, that wouldn't happen to be an army lapel on your coat, there, would it?”

  
Mary smiled at him. “Yes, my father was in the Indian Regiment. Are you a man of service?”

  
John felt a warmth he had not known for many months seem to overtake his mind. “Why as a matter of fact. . .” And so the ex-army doctor told Mary Morstan of his adventures; from his time in the war to his time in the profession of solving crimes with his best friend to the side. It felt ...happy. He had only explained his life in such detail to his therapist, ever so reluctantly, and she did not reach out as this kind woman did.

  
Their conversation carried on to the other side of London, ending with an outing for brunch.  
John was happy, free from his loneliness. Mary was happy, feeling full with a sense of purpose.  
In time, they would heal.

  
For Sherlock, it would take longer. But for John, his friend returning was not a possibility. He saw him dead, he felt the pain of the empty rooms and conversations.  
Then Mary came.  
And he was happy.


End file.
